


Though those that are betray'd Do feel the treason sharply (yet the traitor stands in worse case of woe)

by Athenaskywriter



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Grace Burgess, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Grace is a spy, Introspection, Period Typical Attitudes, Season/Series 01, Slow Burn, and acts like one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:15:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29605134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athenaskywriter/pseuds/Athenaskywriter
Summary: "She would have instantly recognised Thomas Shelby even without having seen his pictures on the report. His mere presence exuded authority and danger. Despite his expensive suit, he bore the working class haircut with his hair shaved on the sides. Probably a mere tool to seem more relatable to the people in the city. To show them that he was not an invader, he was one of them and thus, exploit and command them more easily.He met her gaze confidently and she could feel that she was not the only one analysing the other. She felt almost naked under his sharp gaze. He looked like he could read her like a book, could see all her secrets. She remained stoic, refusing to let anything slip."Season 1 from Grace POV.Title from Cymbeline, William Shakespeare.
Relationships: Ada Shelby/Freddie Thorne, Arthur Shelby & John Shelby & Tommy Shelby, Grace Burgess & Arthur Shelby, Grace Burgess & Chester Campbell, Grace Burgess/Tommy Shelby, Polly Gray & Tommy Shelby
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Though those that are betray'd Do feel the treason sharply (yet the traitor stands in worse case of woe)

Arrival at the Garrison

Grace never felt more out of place than in this landscape. Amongst the working-class factory fires and ashes, with the sound of her boots against the muddy soil muffled by the raging racket of heavy machinery, her good-quality emerald skirt and her posh background created a startling contrast. Stifling a cough engendered by the omnipresent smoke, she took note in a corner of her mind to acquire more appropriate clothing. She reckoned that her current outfit would be suitable for her immediate task as it may reinforce the image of an eager, if not somewhat naive, young girl looking for employment that she was trying to create for herself.

Straightening her skirt, she sighed. As unfamiliar as this setting was, she chose this situation, this mission. Her goals were simple: Find who stole the missing weapons. She had three suspects: a gang unknown to her, the Peaky Blinders, the Communists or the Irish Republic Army. Even the simple thought of the organisation generated a tight feeling in her chest as her memory drifted back to the reminisces of her late father. She would make him proud. She would not fail him in spite of the adversity of her mission. She just hoped that the bar where she was aiming to work would not be as bleak as the city of Birmingham.

Opening the door to the establishment and quickly analysing the scene before her, she bitterly thought that it was, indeed, too much to hope for. A red-haired man with rolled-up sleeves and a cigarette loosely hanging out of his mouth was sweeping up what appeared to be splinted wood which probably belonged to a piece of furniture before it met this undetermined tragic fate. She diverted her attention from the man to the door, taking a second to recompose her features before confidently walking up to him.

“I’m here about the job as a barmaid,” she started.

At her words, the barman raised his head to look at her and took the cigarette off his mouth, staring at her incredulously.

“Are you mad?” He asked with a strong accent.

“Am I what?” She answered immediately, unable to contain her surprise at his words.

“Do you know about this place?” He questioned, gesturing vaguely at the dingy pub.

Of course, she did. The Garrison. Headquarters of the Peaky Blinders, practically owned by them. What better way to spy on someone than by refilling their drink? Especially, the drinks of near-alcoholics who probably spent most of their stolen money in this particular pub.

“I saw it in an advertisement,” she simply replied, getting closer to him.

“Job’s been filled,” the man said before going back to his task, essentially dismissing her.

Grace suppressed her blooming feeling of frustration and, relentless, took another step towards the ginger.

“But it was in yesterday’s paper.”

The man dared not look at her as he stated:

“Believe me, love. I’m doing you a favour.”

“I’m not asking for favours, I’m asking for employment,” she said impatiently, unwilling to handle this patronising tone.

At her inflection, the man finally had the decency to look at her. He remained silent for a few seconds, looking uneasy.

“You’re too… nice,” He explained hesitantly.

She raised her eyebrows, conveying her disbelief. Part of her was glad that her persona was already convincing even though she mostly felt that she had greatly misjudged the character of her mission. She thought that presenting herself as a beautiful and kind young lady would allow her to gain these people trust but it would appear that being “nice” wasn’t in the cards for someone hoping to work in this wretched town. The fact that her first act of authority made Harry explain himself was proof enough. She should have known better. Birmingham was notorious for being a brutish place but she had underestimated the extent of this statement. A change in persona was required. To live in this city, one needed to be tough, not fragile. Ready to do the hard tasks and not delicate. Aware of the depravity of the place but not condemning.

“How would you know?” She asked him with defiance.

“And too pretty.” He added, “They’d have you up against the wall.”

She could only agree with the confirmation of her earlier thoughts. She was too well-dressed for this kind of society. She could only rejoice in the fact that he underestimated her. She could use that in the future although, immediately, she needed to convince him to give her the job.

“I have experience and references,” she stated with urgency but authority, taking out some papers from her bag to show them to him.

He grabbed them and started to study them. One small victory.

“What part of Ireland are you from?” He asked.

“Galway.” She answered with assurance, even though her heart started pounding in her chest.

A nod was her only answer and she took a silent inhale to steady her voice before adding:

“I worked in Dublin.”

A beat passed. Would he believe her? She reviewed her interactions with him, trying to assess if she had make a mistake. She could find none.

“My mother was from Galway,” he finally said with a grin.

Grace allowed herself a relieved smile and stored the information in a corner of her mind. Personal connection, good. She may have a chance. The man looked at her for a few seconds but shook his head, almost apologetically.

“You’re too pretty.”

Enough was enough. She needed this employment. She would not let a small lapse in judgment ruin her chances. Discarding her bag and hat on a nearby table, she grabbed a bucket filled with a putrid filth. She resisted the urge to make a face at the smell and offered a small smile towards the man.

“Watch and listen.”

She started to sing an old Irish folk song, emptying various pots in the bucket. She hoped to prove that she was more than a pretty face. Manual work didn’t scare her and, more importantly, she could sing. Anything that could momentarily stop the heartache of the men who had been in France could only be welcome.

She refused to look at him before the end of her task. Dropping the bucket at his feet with a loud thud, she met his stare, expectantly. He was smiling, amazement written on his face and she felt her heartbeat slow down in her chest.

“In Ireland, my sining made them cry and stopped them fighting,” she added.

This place looked like it could use a break in fights. They both knew it was a large overstatement but it didn’t matter. The man passed a hand through his hair and looked at her with a roguish smile.

“Well, I hope you know a lot of songs.”

Relief washed over her and she nodded with a large smile. Victory.

First meeting with Tommy

Chatter, laughter and noises. Every inches of the pub was filled with sweaty and loud working men and women. Grace quickly looked around the room, almost dizzy due to the number of people filling the pub. She moved closer to Harry, a safe beacon in this ocean of commotion, practically yelling to be heard.

“Is it always this busy on a daytime?” She asked, eyes still observing the crowd.

Noticing two pints in need of a refill, she hurried to grab them clumsily, barely hearing the barman’s reply:

“No. These boys are on their way to St. Andrews.”

She paused momentarily and raised her eyebrows. St. Andrews? She briefly inspected the content of the room. None of these men seemed to be the religious type.

“To pray?” She asked incredulously.

“That’ll be the day!” The barman answered between chuckles.

Grace smiled before gingerly lifting several pints in her hand. She liked Harry. He was an honest and good man, although occasionally crude. Nothing like the report offered by Chief Inspector Campbell when he briefed her about her mission. He saw them as savages, as corrupt as the Peaky Blinders were just because they tolerated their rule. Grace could see none of that in the grinning man at her sides.

“St. Andrews is a football ground. The Blues are playing. That’s the forward line there and that’s the goalie, believe it or not,” He explained as she served some men.

Grace nodded and was about to make some form of reply when the window on the side of the bar opened and a deep voice shouted an authoritarian greeting. She turned her head and felt her smile fade upon seeing the newcomer.

She would have instantly recognised Thomas Shelby even without having seen his pictures on the report. His mere presence exuded authority and danger and he was clearly overdressed compared to the other men in the pub, marking him as an important man in the city. She took an instant to observe his features. Although he was not particularly tall, he was lean and seemed fit and quick on his feet. She would bet that he could hold his own in a fight. His posture still held the rigidity of the military even though he seemed to be the sort of man to be this stiff without any war at all. His face was long and sharp, cheekbones piercing through the flesh, and his mouth was set in what appeared to be a permanent state of indifference. He didn’t look like a man who smiled often. It probably did not fit his icy persona. Despite his expensive suit, he bore the working class haircut with his hair shaved on the sides. Probably a mere tool to seem more relatable to the people in the city. To show them that he was not an invader, he was one of them and thus, exploit and command them more easily. From what she had heard about him in her short time in Birmingham, he did not lack the wits and such stratagems were not beneath him either. He met her gaze. His eyes were a deep light blue, reinforcing the image of ice that she associated with him. They seemed ethereal, strengthening the mystery around his person. She had to admit that he was a handsome man. A man she could even be attracted to, despite the fog of danger surrounding him. She quickly discarded the thought. He was a brute, a savage who ruthlessly murdered and maimed for his own personal gain. Despite his pretty face, he disgusted her.

He met her gaze confidently and she could feel that she was not the only one analysing the other. She felt almost naked under his sharp gaze. He looked like he could read her like a book, could see all her secrets. She remained stoic, refusing to let anything slip. It was evident that this was not the case. He wanted her to feel this way, he wanted to intimidate her, to assert his superiority. She would not let him win.

“I need a bottle of rum,” He said, finally breaking eye contact.

She had passed the test. She wouldn’t be able to say how nor describe what had happened but she could feel it. As if the aura of danger around him had dimmed. She remained motionless for a second, breathing softly, until Harry leaned over her shoulder to whisper in her ear:

“Grace, whatever it is, it’s on the house.”

She almost jumped at his voice, startled. Shaking herself out of her trance, she raised her eyes towards Thomas Shelby.

“A whole bottle?” She asked, regaining control of herself.

“Yeah,” came the quick reply.

“White or dark rum?”

“Don’t care.”

He seemed in a hurry. She entertained the idea of giving him a cheap bottle, just to spite him and shaking off the chills that were still going down her spine. She shook her head. She wanted to be reliable, to gain their trust as much as the idea disturbed her. It seemed to be a task hard enough without taking subjective decisions, as well. Nevertheless, she did not hurry to serve him, grabbing a decent bottle before making her way towards him. She could swear that his gaze was on her throughout the entire ordeal and she tried to suppress shivers it brought her.

“Harry said it’s on the house,” she stated, putting down the bottle on the counter between them.

She looked back up to him and bit her bottom lip, nervously. His presence was making her feel edgy. She couldn’t really point out what exactly. Perhaps, the constant staring of his cold eyes or his indifferent posture. 

“Are you a whore?”

The unpredictable question left her speechless and she could only stare at him, dumbly. He studied her a few more instants and she had to force herself not to shy away from him.

“Because if you’re not, you’re in the wrong place,” he finally added before turning away from her and leaving the pub.

Grace watched him go and felt the tension leave her body when he was out of sight. She sighed and let her eyes drop on the counter. Despite not having revealed anything and having had the opportunity of finally meeting one of the Peaky Blinders which was all one could wish for this early in her mission, she couldn’t help but feel like she had lost this round to him. In frustration, she brusquely shut the window and made her way towards Harry, fighting to regain her composure.

“He’s one of them you warned me about,” She stated more for her sake than his.

Harry moved closer to her and she could see fear in his gaze. A surge of anger warmed her from within as the sight. Harry was a kind man, he didn’t deserve to live his life in terror of the Peaky Blinders.

“Look, Grace, you’re a friendly girl, but be careful. If I say something’s on the house, then say nothing to whoever you’re serving,” He muttered hurriedly, glancing around as if to make sure that the man was truly gone.

She nodded quickly to appease him and he continued more hesitantly:

“If they decide that they want you, there’s nothing anybody could do about it. Lucky for you, since he got back from France, Tommy doesn’t want anybody at all.”

She nodded one last time and he moved away from her to serve another client. Grace remained still, filled with uncertainty. She wasn’t sure about her next move. She didn’t plan on the Peaky Blinders to be much of an issue but she had once again underestimated the task. She could not afford to lose another round. Not even to Thomas Shelby.

Singing in the Garrison

The pub was crowded tonight Grace observed as her eyes were calmly scanning the people in the room. Some of the men could not even sit. Standing in a chair, hands on her hips, she was singing a version of _The Boy I Love is Up in the Gallery_ at the demand of some of the clients. She smiled when they began to sing along with her on the chorus. Most of them were clearly off-tuned but there was something comforting and friendly in the cacophony. She could even see some of them smiling, past, present and future worries completely forgotten. It was rewarding to know that she was the one to ease up this pain.

She heard the door of the Garrison open but she didn’t pay it any real attention until the voices singing with her went suddenly silent. She frowned and kept the performance going, trying to discern what was wrong. A few seconds later, the faces of the Shelby family entered her line of sight. She quickly scanned through the faces, identifying Arthur and John Shelby but her gaze could not help but settle of Thomas. She saw him remove his hat, staring openly at her. She met his gaze and, once the flicker of what could have been surprise at hearing her sing disappeared, his eyes seemed to slightly soften. All she could see was a deep weariness and a heavy sadness. He looked strangely human. Humanity suited him. It made it difficult to reconcile the brutish gangster he was in her mind with the hurting man in front of her. Startled by her train of thoughts she came to an abrupt stop and quickly looked away like a trapped animal.

The silence was deafening and the tension and fear in the room almost palpable until Harry approached the Peaky Blinders and stated with a smile:

“We haven’t had singing in here since the war.”

An unconscious part of her noted that Harry was addressing Thomas and not Arthur. She had already perceived that Thomas was closer to be the leader of the gang than his older brother but Harry’s reaction was proof. Not that she was necessarily happy about being right. It would only make her mission all the more difficult. She silently observed Thomas’ gaze turn towards the barman, his indifferent coldness back in place in the blink of an eye.

“Why do you think that is, Harry?” He asked in a tone she could only judge as condescending.

The other men in the room were nervously looking at the exchange and seemed ready for the situation to explode. The air was heavy and Harry seemed inches away from losing it. He remained silent, looking down at the floor and Grace noticed that his hands were shaking slightly. Upon his lack of response, Thomas simply diverted his eyes from Harry to her and from the corner of her eyes, she saw the ginger relax. Once again, she faced the full stare of his icy irises yet there seemed to be something else beneath his expression. She couldn’t read what it was. Her survival instinct was shouting at her to run from the danger exuded by this sole shift in his reaction. She fought it for a few more seconds, returning his gaze, trying to find some of the vulnerability she had seen earlier in these frozen eyes. When she realised that she couldn’t, she looked away.

Meeting with Campbell

Wandering in the museum, Grace was observing the marble statues with feigned interest. She enjoyed art, paintings in particular but she simply didn’t understand the purpose of statues. They couldn’t compete with the details of the model and there was something disturbing in their empty blank gaze. Hearing the sound of footsteps approaching her, she subtly looked at the figure and recognised Inspector Campbell.

Facing her, he nodded a greeting and folded his hands behind his back:

“Are you in position?” He began.

Approaching him, still looking around to make sure that nobody was listening to their conversation, she replied quietly:

“I am, sir.”

There was something comforting in seeing his bushy moustache and hearing his pronounced accent. Everything in the past few days had been completely new and she couldn’t help but feel relieved by Campbell’s familiarity. She moved past him towards another set of statues as he asked:

“Your first impressions.”

“I am quite shocked at how these people live,” she started without thinking.

She didn’t try elaborate. Campbell would probably think that she meant the violence and drinking. She had seen boys abuse young girls in the street and men throwing up in a dingy corner. She knew that Campbell considered this to be savagery but she didn’t. Not anymore. Campbell didn’t live with them. She did and all she saw behind such acts was misery. The misery, the pain and the poverty that seemed to invade every inch of the city. She couldn’t even begin to imagine how they could survive like this. Campbell and her had clearly diverging opinions on this matter but, for the sake of keeping the peace with her only tie in this city, she would agree to disagree.

“Have you found anything out that might help me?” She asked instead while they were moving towards another sculpture.

“I interrogated the head of the Peaky Blinders. He didn’t know anything. A brute.”

That was to be expected. Arthur Shelby seemed more to be the muscle of the organisation rather than the head. She could feel the Inspector eying her. She let him observe the pretty purple dress that she had fished out of her closet, especially for this meeting. It was a game. It was all a game. To most of the people, she was Grace the barmaid but to Campbell, she was Miss Burgess. As such, she had let Grace’s rags in her room and had put on Miss Burgess’ fine clothing. Let people see what they were expecting to see.

She moved to another bust and reported:

“It strikes me that it isn’t Arthur who heads the Shelby family. It’s the younger one.” She looked away and added after a heartbeat, “Thomas.”

Her stomach twisted at the the subsequent images of icy blue eyes and sharp features that invaded her mind. She inhaled sharply before relying a detail that had troubled her since she had learned about it:

“They say he won two medals for gallantry in the war.”

Following their last meeting and her confirmation that he was the leader of the pack, she had done her research. She hadn’t been able to find much. People were too afraid of him to give up anything but she did learn this. She hadn’t been as surprised as she thought she would be. She had already established that he was brave, almost recklessly. She also knew that he had served, had volunteered. Yet, she didn’t take him for a man of honour who would risk his life for his country. He didn’t seem to be the patriotic type. It only added another piece to the puzzle that was Thomas Shelby.

“You sound fascinated,” mocked Campbell.

She remained still, back facing him. Truthfully, she was. Everything about the man was a mystery and she felt that there was more layers to him than a simple gang leader. She wanted to confide in Campbell but she knew it to be foolish. As much as she was glad that he was there, he was opinionated, close minded and conservative. He wouldn’t take well the idea that she may be interested in learning more about a man he considered to be a beast.

“However, my opinion has not changed. The bookmaker gangs have other business and the communists are too weak to have planned this. I believe the guns were taken by the IRA,” She told him, efficiently changing the subject and finishing her report.

“You must not let your personal history cloud your judgment,” he replied.

Grace felt a surge of anger at the condescending tone. She could accept his disdain towards the people she was spying on. She could tolerate his mockery towards her own perceptions of her task. She would not endure him using her father against her. She would not let him question her professional integrity. She moved closer to him, facing him with defiance.

“What history?”

He adverted her gaze.

“That the IRA murdered my father will not affect my judgment,” she calmly stated, circling around him. He visibly tensed but she did avert her gaze.

Finally, she took pity in his fidgeting and moved away. Campbell followed her and handed her a piece of paper.

“If you see any guns check the serial numbers against that list.”

He moved towards the exit before changing his mind and retracing his footsteps towards her.

“Your father was the finest officer I ever worked with. I know he’d be very, very proud of you,” he said as a peace offering.

She took the olive branch and offered him a slight smile. Finally, he left. The sounds of his footsteps echoing in the room. Grace contemplated his words for a few seconds. Would her father be proud? She hadn’t accomplished anything, yet. She would, she promised herself. She would find the guns and then she would believe that her father would be proud.

Episode finale

The same evening, she was out in front of the pub, Grace again, when she saw Thomas quickly walking up the street, lightning a cigarette. She couldn’t help but stare at him. His cap was hiding his eyes and the black material of his suit was almost blending with the darkness of the night. A shadow in the dark. One with the city. As if sensing her stare, he turned his head and looked her in the eyes, calmly. This time, she maintained the eye contact, letting him evaluate her, almost holding her breath. She waited for the panic, the fight or flight instinct, the fear. None of that came and she felt a knot within her disappear. A few seconds later, he looked away and she turned around, going back into the pub. So far, her mission had not been what she had expected it to be. Where she had expected her target to be a crude, unrefined savage, she had been confronted with a sharp, fascinating man. She was constantly on her toes, ready to act at the first sign of danger. A small smile graced her lips. Though frightening at first, she found that, deep within, she was enjoying this. This mission was looking more and more interesting. 

**Author's Note:**

> Here is Chapter 1! I will post a new chapter every weekend. 
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment if you enjoyed (or did not enjoy) the chapter or if you have any questions. I'd love to hear from you!
> 
> See you next week!


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